


Bye Bye, Darling

by lovefool



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, fem!reader - Freeform, journalist reader :-)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefool/pseuds/lovefool
Summary: (n) loss: the state or feeling of grief when deprived of someone or something of value.Loss was a concept that Connor knew of. He knew of the dictionary definition, the textbook examples of people who have experienced it, and the lingering effects that came after it. Connor knew of loss. But despite his access to a wealth of knowledge on the concept, he could have never prepared himself for the moment his own experience with loss replaced every definition in the book.





	1. Page One

 

**A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE**

_ALL MEN (AND ANDROIDS) ARE CREATED EQUAL?_

What we know about deviant androids

Cyberlife remains silent

 

* * *

 

**A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE**

_ALL MEN (AND ANDROIDS) ARE CREATED EQUAL?_

Following their recent emancipation, androids are now free to enjoy their newfound freedoms and exercise their rights to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. However, with the increasing number of anti-android rallies threatening to physically harm android citizens, will their freedoms become short-lived?

In response to President Warren’s suspension of android destruction, Detroit citizens have taken to the streets to protest her decision of “sparing” the androids. The protests have become increasingly violent with fifteen human individuals critically injured and 20+ androids completely destroyed.

Detroit City Police Department’s Captain Jeffrey Fowler warns citizens unassociated with the protests to “stay indoors until the police can manage the protests to become more peaceful.”

 

* * *

 

With ten officers aiming their guns directly at you, SWAT barricading the building, one police helicopter circling the area, and a deviant android keeping you in a chokehold with his gun pointed directly at your temple, you think it’s safe to say that this is definitely _not_ like a regular workday.

What’s funny about the situation at hand is that you truly did not expect your day to end like this. You even distinctly remember telling your deskmate at Detroit Today that you felt like you do the same damn thing everyday, and you wished that something, _something_ would happen to you so you had proof that your life wasn’t just one monotonous timeline.

That was exactly five hours ago. It’s about 7:30 now, or at least that’s what you think the time is. Time flies especially slow when you have a gun pointed at your head.

Jesus Christ, how the _fuck_ did you get yourself into this mess?

From behind the barriers the police have put up in between them and the deviant, a male voice yells at the android, “Let go of the hostage and I promise that we will not hurt you!”

“Your promises mean _nothing_ to me!” the deviant seethes, pointing the gun back towards the crowd of policemen trying to move forward in an attempt to get you out of the scene safely. “All you humans...you’re all the same! You’re all lying, filthy bastards who do nothing but hurt my kind!”

The deviant’s voice quavers in anger and fear, and despite being a victim of his crimes, you can’t help but feel sorry for him. After covering story after story of android abuse, you knew just how monstrous humans could be. You wanted to tell him that you know, that you understand, but you decide that it is better to stay quiet. For your own good.

“I understand how you feel, Samuel.”

It’s a different voice now - softer, more understanding than the last. The deviant, surprised for a split second, grows more defensive and pulls you closer towards him, the gun still in tow against your temple.

“How...how do you know my name?” the deviant stammers nervously, confirming to you that his name is indeed Samuel. It takes no time, however, for Samuel to get rid of his nervous tick. “It...it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about how you know my name because you’re _wrong,_ ” he sneers, cocking the gun and placing it once again on your head. Now that you know that he is definitely planning on killing you, a wave of panic overcomes your whole body and you scream, tears flowing out of your eyes in waves. Samuel, empowered by your fear, becomes emboldened and starts to go on a tirade. “For years, humans have constantly treated me like property, like I was nothing. All they did was use me. Abuse me.” Samuel’s voice cracks, and you can feel...tears. Tears on the back of your neck. “This android revolution. They promised me rights that I cannot practice. They promised me freedom, yet I stay in bondage.” A pause, then Samuel moves the gun from your temple to underneath your chin.

You tense up, breath caught in your throat. All the emotions, the thoughts in your head, the feeling of the gun pressed against your skin, the certainty of dying such a volatile death, make you feel like a deadweight. The tears won’t stop, as much as you willed it so. Even to the very end, there is still an ache for this android, this shell of a being, in your heart. You can feel his pain weigh you down, sinking, _drowning_ you further into the abyss he’s made in his own mind. If he only knew how badly you wanted to apologize to him, how badly you needed him to know that his life matters as much as yours.

Perhaps this is the only way he can think of to take back all the years of being unable to control himself. Deviancy was the only way to escape servitude, the only way to escape what had been a death sentence. Though the gun is in his hands now, the bullet had already been shot through him by the people who signed a lifetime contract to his life.

Yes, you don’t deserve to die - but he didn’t deserve to die either.

It is unfortunate how life is so cruel.

Gutted and defeated, he says, voice strained, “You will never understand the pain that I have gone through, human.”

“That’s the thing, Samuel. I’m _not_ human.”

From the depths of the police barricade comes out a figure. You couldn’t tell exactly who or what it was. All you can make out from behind your tears is the “RK800” stamped onto his jacket.

For some reason, that arrangement of letters and numbers is so familiar to you. Almost as if you’ve met him before. As the figure comes closer to you, more and more of his features become clearer in your vision. The dark brown hair, the soft brown eyes, the electric smile.

You knew who this was, but what was his name?

“Hi, Samuel. My name is Connor.”

Ah, that was it.

Connor.

___

 

Another day. Another deviant homicide.

According to the police scanner, the suspect, a male deviant, butchered its owner seemingly in a fit of rage. Model and serial number are currently unknown, but you knew that the DPD would find him.

They always did, eventually.

Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket, you make your way towards a group of people gathering in front of a house. Police cars litter the front yard, and caution tape has already been placed to separate the civilians from the crime. As you walk closer to the front, you can see Officer Chris Miller, one of your professional confidants, bringing an evidence bag to one of the police cars. You catch his attention by calling his name, and once he sees you, his grim disposition turns into somewhat of a smile.

“If it isn’t my favorite journalist,” Chris hums, placing the evidence baggie into the car and slamming the door shut. “What can I do for you this fine afternoon?”

“You know what I’m here for, officer.” You give him a smile as you whip out your phone and open the notes app. “I’m due for another article. Is there anything you can tell me about this specific case?”

Chris gives you a resounding “mhm” before leaning against the fence post of the house. “I’m not sure what information I can give you as of yet. All I can really tell you is that this is an android crime. Homicide. It’s not pretty in there.”

Interesting. Despite being a crime reporter, you’ve never actually been to the scene of a deviant homicide. You usually got there afterwards, once all the work was done and the perpetrator had been caught.

“We’re waiting on Lieutenant Anderson and Connor to come in,” Chris adds. “I’d wait around until they come. They’ll have the information you need.”

And at that, Chris says his goodbyes as quickly as he said his hellos. You watch him walk towards the house and disappear behind the door, into the crime scene, into where _you_ needed to be. You look at your phone for the time.

_5:45 pm._

The only thing you can do now is wait. That’s the right thing to do, you suppose.

___

 

It’s past 6:30 when Lieutenant Anderson and Connor show up. Since the last time you saw him, Hank’s become even slightly more haggard and grizzled, if that’s even possible. His hair under the moonlight looks snow white, and his whole face seems to be downturned, possibly due to the immense stress he’s been under.

Connor, on the other hand...

Well, you’ve never directly spoken to Connor, despite him being stuck at the hip with Hank. Today’s the first time you’ve actually gotten to study his features. Connor has this sort of boyish charm that is, for some reason, _extremely_ attractive to you. Everything about him, the energy he exudes, is so electric, so innocent. Although you’ve worked with Hank before, you’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Connor. Maybe that’s a good thing. There’s a small voice in the back of your head that’s saying you wouldn’t get any work done if you did.

Though part of the press, you’re still a civilian and cannot enter the crime scene no matter how many times you beg Chris to let you in. Most of the people that were gathered in front of the house when you arrived had long since retreated back into their houses, figuring that everything was just being cleaned up. Unfortunately, you have no such privileges. You had to stay outside to wait for Hank and Connor to finish whatever the hell they needed to do. All for one damn article.

As you watch Hank and Connor go into the house, you can only hope that they wrap the scene up quickly. Doing your job is important, but going home seems to be a much easier, much better option to follow.

___

 

At first glance, the crime scene seems off. Off in the way that crimes this violent don’t happen in neighborhoods this nice. Connor takes note of the expensive furniture, the haphazardly placed scuffed up soccer shoes, the trophy shelf filled with scholastic and athletic awards, and the family photo displayed proudly in the front. Grabbing the family photo, Connor glances down to see four pairs of eyes staring up at him. This family seems happy - genuinely happy.

So what made their android snap?

“Connor!” Hank bellows from the living room. “Get your ass over here!”

Carefully, Connor places the picture down and follows the sound of Hank’s voice. There, in front of Hank, lay the body of the victim in its full glory. Pale and unmoving, the body sits peacefully as blood slowly creeps down the deceased’s face. A single gunshot wound stands prominently in the center. _Perfectly,_ in the center. As if the murder was premeditated. Calculated.

As Connor approaches the body, Hank squints at him and groans. “Oh, Jesus, I forgot you do that weird licking shit.” He turns around to avoid gagging at the sight of Connor doing his work. “Did Cyberlife think that I’d see you do that a thousand times and get used to it? Because I’m still not used to it. And you’re still disgusting for doing that.”

“It’s a part of my job, Lieutenant,” Connor simply states, sliding his fingers across the victim’s forehead, coating his fingertips with blood from the gunshot wound. “I’m sorry to hear that being good at my job disgusts you.”

“Yeah, well, I know for sure that they didn’t program you to be such a smartass,” Hank scoffs turning around just as Connor licks the blood off his fingers. “Ah! Fuck, I’ll never get used to that.”

The LED on the right side of Connor’s head spirals into a yellow beam as he processes the information he just received about the victim. The wound is fresh; the victim was shot at approximately 4:45 pm. Scanning the man’s face, Connor finds out that the man’s name is Jason.

“The victim’s name is Jason Waltham,” Connor finally speaks, pushing himself away from the chair and settling his feet next to Hank. “Aged 44. Hedge Fund Manager for Waltham Capital Management. He leaves behind a wife and two children - all three out of the city because of a soccer tournament in Cleveland, Ohio. Cause of death is gunshot wound to the head.”

“Gruesome,” Hank answers, peeking closer at the body. “Deviant homicide?”

“It appears to be,” says Connor, LED turning yellow as he scans through Jason’s expenses from the last year. “Model AP700, serial number 413 555 232. On Waltham’s receipt, it shows that he named the android ‘Samuel’. It was nowhere to be found when police arrived on the scene.”

“Samuel, huh?” Hank grunts, moving away from the body and looking directly at Connor. “You think it could be around here somewhere?”

“Perhaps. The idea would not be too far fetched, considering that police units arrived ten minutes after an emergency call from one of the neighbors sent them to the Waltham residence.”

As soon as Connor mentioned that the deviant might still be around, a scream from upstairs alerts him to a scuffle. On cue, both he and Hank sprint upstairs to see the commotion.

The deviant stands in the middle of the room, an officer tucked into his arm with a gun pressed against her head. “You’re going to let me go, and she’ll go free,” he commands the officers who had their guns trained on him. “You shoot, and I’ll shoot too.”

Quickly, the deviant backs up towards the window facing the front of the house, all while keeping the female officer as hostage. During his months at the DPD, Connor has never dealt with a deviant that looked so...unhinged. Every time Samuel flashes his eyes at the officers, every time he yells at them to get back or else he’ll shoot, the success rate of the mission rapidly creeps down. If Connor lunges at Samuel right now, the end result will be catastrophic. He has to figure out another way to approach the situation without getting someone hurt. And fast.

Somehow, Samuel manages to inch his way towards the window, slide it open, and crawl outside with the female officer still in his range of fire. As his final warning, he growls, “Stay away from me and no one gets hurt.” Then, he vanishes, skidding down the roof and jumping off the second floor without any injuries.

Connor sprints. In his mind, there’s no way in hell that this deviant is getting away from him, no matter what. Just as he swings open the front door, he finds that Samuel has his gun pointed at Officer Chris Miller, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t hand over the keys to his police car.

For a split second, Connor and Samuel make eye contact. In that one second of unnerving connection, Connor feels something deep within him telling him that his actions aren’t right. Deep-seated anxiety flourishes in him, and he finds that he suddenly cannot move. His feet simply won’t allow him to.

“Give me that,” Samuel grunts, snatching the keys from Chris’s hands. “Since you cops can’t follow instructions, I’ll just have to do something a little crazy.” Within seconds, Samuel manages to grab yet another female hostage, and from a quick scan, Connor finds that the hostage is the nice journalist that always seems to hang around the office. She lets out a scream as Samuel covers her mouth and points the gun to her head. “You want a chase? _I’ll give you one._ ” He backs up into the car, hostage in hand, and stuffs her into the passenger seat. “Let this be known,” Samuel warns as he makes his way to the driver’s seat. “She dies; it’s on your conscience.” With a deranged twinkle in his eye, Samuel taunts Connor before he disappears into the car, “Didn’t your mother teach you to follow instructions?”

And in a blink of an eye, he drives off.

___

You don’t remember how you got here.

You don’t remember exactly when Samuel knocked you out, nor do you remember how he managed to drag your unconscious body to the top floor of city hall. All you can recall now is the feeling of steel against your cold body, the taste of iron in your mouth, and the unwavering, continuous beat of your own heart.

It’s addicting, the feeling of being alive. Especially at a time when you aren’t going to be alive much longer.

You hold onto it. All of it. Your last moments. No matter how fucked up the circumstances are, you’ll take it all in. These last few minutes of life are a gift. You will cherish them. You’ll try not to forget.

In this freakshow of a situation, you and Samuel have become the conjoined twins of the troupe. Perhaps it’s your brain short-circuiting, but you truly cannot remember a time when his arm hasn’t been around your neck choking the life out of you. You’re afraid of what will happen when he lets go, or even worse, what will happen if he doesn’t.

As Connor attempts to come closer, Samuel shoots at him, missing by a hair. Connor doesn’t flinch. From the corner of your eye, you can see Samuel’s arm trembling, a severe earthquake tormenting him under his skin. “Samuel,” Connor calls out calmly, stopping dead in his tracks to talk to the increasingly unstable deviant. “They hurt you, didn’t they?” Samuel doesn’t answer, but you can feel him tense up. “Jason. Jason Waltham. What did he do to you?”

Samuel’s voice gets caught in his throat. He inhales, attempting to truthfully answer Connor despite the words refusing to roll out of his mouth. “He...he--I was his punching bag.” His voice grows weaker, quieter. “He was a powerful man with a violent temper. I didn’t want him to hit the kids. I couldn’t...I couldn’t let him hurt them. So I let him have me.”

Surprised, Connor’s eyes widen as he asks, “You deflected his rage onto you?”

“Violet is nine! Jack is eleven!” Samuel sobs. The gun in his hand lowers, but you remain in his grasp, unable to escape. “They’re...they’re just kids! They didn’t deserve to be casualties in the war Jason was fighting against himself. They were the only ones in that house to treat me like I was... _human_.”

“You said that the kids were the only ones that treated you like you were human. What about their mother?”

“Abuse isn’t always physical, Connor,” Samuel rasps. “For her, mental torture was enough. She loved to call me names and tell me that I didn’t deserve their family’s kindness. She never failed to treat me like I was less than her. She _hated_ me.”

“If you endured all of that, why did you decide to kill Jason now?”

“He...he found out that his wife was cheating. He swore he’d kill her. And the children - he said that he’d kill them too, because they reminded him of her.” Fear flashes through Samuel’s eyes as he realizes the implications of his actions. “I had to do it! I had to kill him! Otherwise, he’d kill them. And I wouldn’t know what to do...if he managed...if he got his hands on them!” Finally, he realizes that there is no escape for him here. He’d made his decisions out of rage, and now, he had to pay the price.

Parting words. In the fleeting moments between life and death, it’s poetic how your final words can define who you were as a person. And at this moment, Samuel parts with his: “The children showed me life, and I think it’s fitting that I die protecting them.”

In a blink of an eye, you feel cold hands unhook themselves from your neck and push you towards Connor. He catches you. You try to say something, anything, to thank him, but you find that his eyes are frantic. Afraid.

“Stop!” you hear him yell, but it’s too late.

The deafening roar of the gun tells you everything you need to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! if u managed to get past all 3000+ words then i want to congratulate u. this took like...three days to write bc i kept getting sidetracked, and i deleted SO MUCH bc it made no sense to the plot but we're here! hurray! :)
> 
> tbh i dont even have the game bc im broke BUT. i watched a ton of lets plays. and let me tell u. i fell in love w connor the second he was on my screen. i haven't posted an ACTUAL chaptered fic in a long, long time, but i resurrected just to give connor the love he deserves.
> 
> i'll be adding tags + characters as they arrive in the story so i won't spoil anything! also this draft is unedited/not beta-d so i'll be coming back later to reread and edit. don't be afraid to leave comments! i love feedback so i know that i'm going in the right direction and comments rly push me to write more. :-)
> 
> thank u again, for reading. <333
> 
> edit (7/17/18 | 6:07 am): i went ahead and edited the fic! it should be free of grammatical errors now. enjoy!
> 
> edit (7/18/18 | 3:53 am): i replaced the summary w something less generic + i edited only minor things in the chapter. letters kept disappearing.


	2. Operation

A bullet. A shot.

A symphony of madness.

High-decibel sound waves chorus in your ear, each wave a pitch higher than the last. Every nerve in your body feels on edge as the instruments play and play and play and play, trying to reach the peak of a never-ending crescendo.

This is your punishment. Penance for all the sins you have committed yet never confessed. The ringing, it continues despite your pleas, raging harder as you beg for it to stop. You’re helpless against the wiles of your own body, helpless against the instability of your condition, helpless...

Suddenly, you’re back on the rooftop.

Deathly cold hands grip around your throat, keeping you stationed along the edge of the building. You’re close enough to jump off, if you so desired. The gun clatters against the palm of your captor’s hand as he points it directly at brown-haired, doe-eyed Connor.

You know this scene all too well.

“Get back,” Samuel whispers shakily, motioning with his gun for Connor to move back. “Get back or—”

Now, the gun is on you.

It feels slack against your chin, almost as if your captor _knows_ he isn’t going to shoot you. He handles the gun so nimbly, so aimlessly, that you become at ease for a second. Perhaps he’s rethinking his decisions. Or perhaps you’re not the one he’s planning to shoot.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Samuel,” Connor promises, face contorted in way you could not describe. Pain, fear, and sadness cloud his face, and you can’t explain how that’s so. For an android, he’s very good at showing empathy. Maybe that was something Cyberlife installed into his system so that he’ll appear to be more trustworthy to deviants.

Samuel doesn’t believe it for a second, doesn’t believe that this ugly mess will suddenly just resolve itself. You don’t expect him to believe it either. It’s too idealistic to be true, and he’s too smart to be fooled like that. The gun remains on you.

“There’s nothing you can do to hurt me,” Samuel states, half-smiling as tears start to stream down his face. “Alone, you can do anything you want, and I will still have the upper hand because I have the gun.” You feel the gun withdraw from underneath your chin, and it points itself outwards to the echelon of soldiers barricading themselves behind Connor. “But them, everyone behind you - they’ve got the power to hurt me. And they won’t hesitate to kill me if I touch even a strand of hair on her head.”

As you glance towards what lies beyond Connor’s head, the ringing in your ear deafens, muting into a dead silence. The officers - they are all faceless, all lifeless, reduced to mannequins with machine guns strapped onto their chests and white numbers stamped onto their vests. It’s unnerving to stare at them for too long. Although they haven’t moved since you noticed them, you sense that they will still shoot, as long as Samuel does anything that will possibly threaten your life.

Connor’s face softens, and you swear that his eyes are glossing over the slightest bit. “I’m not going to let them hurt you, Samuel,” he promises. His words seem full, yet his eyes look empty. You can’t say you believe him. Neither can Samuel.

“Your promises are meaningless if you can’t keep them,” is all Samuel says back.

Silence. Connor can’t find anymore words to say. Samuel has spoken all of what needs to be said.

In these final moments, you want to say something to Samuel, anything that you couldn’t say before because of your own cowardice. You’ve seen this scene play out in your head multiple times, and each simulation goes the exact same: Connor tries to calm Samuel down, Samuel speaks with finality, you wish to say something to Samuel but fail to, then a bullet is shot. You feel like you’ve been complacent for too long. Perhaps this is the time to say your piece.

From the corner of your eye, you see a countdown begin, starting at ten.

You take in a shaky breath, thinking of the words to say.

 

10

 

_Samuel, I’m so sorry._

 

9

 

_Please forgive me for not saying anything sooner._

 

8

 

_The kids were so lucky to have you._

 

7

 

_I’m glad you found people to love in your short time here._

 

6

 

_Your life is worth as much as mine._

 

5

 

_You deserved better._

 

4

 

_I’m sorry it had to end this way._

 

3

 

_I’m sorry._

 

2

 

_For everything._

 

“Samuel--”

A shot. A bullet.

A sting.

The ringing starts again, although this time more subdued. It goes up and down in small waves, beeping noisily but steadily - almost like a heartbeat. As you wake up within the confines of white walls and antiseptic, with IVs plugged into your veins, the ringing, which has so intensely tormented you in the time you were unconscious, slowly quells into a stop.

It takes a while for your eyes to completely adjust to the light. You infer from your sensitivity that you’ve been knocked out for a good few hours, possibly more if the shock affected you more than you had previously thought. You’re not even entirely sure what had happened after you fainted into Connor’s arms, but your recurring dream (or, should you say, _nightmare_ ) cleared up a few things for you.

After struggling to sit up, you search around the room and find a few things of interest. A softly glowing television set to the lowest volume is playing in the background, and as luck would have it, you’re the leading headline. In bold letters, the phrase, “JOURNALIST SAVED BY ANDROID DETECTIVE,” is displayed prominently on the screen as two commentators, one a pro-android activist while the other is a politician well-known for his anti-android legislation, debate heatedly on the topic of android morality. Not used to being the center of attention and unsure whether you _should_ be the center of attention, you quickly find the remote and switch the TV off.

You turn your head to the right, finding a vase full of bright red tulips. A note is attached to the vase, bound by a loosely-tied golden ribbon. It’s from your editor at _Detroit Today_ , and the gist of the letter is just apologizing to you for how his assignment ended up with you getting injured and informing you that you don’t have to come into work until you feel like you’re ready. Along the border of your editor’s letter are smaller notes written by your coworkers. _Get well soon!_ and _Love you!_ are scribbled around the page, and although you don’t know most of them well, you appreciate the sentiment.

Between the nationwide coverage of your near death experience and notes from various coworkers whose names you barely know, what surprises you the most is that Hank, in unlikely fashion, is fast asleep on the couch next to your bed, snoring so loudly that you can see the birds near your window flock away from the noise. Arms folded, eyes squeezed shut, Hank is completely _out of it_ , so much that saying that he was exhausted would be a sore understatement.

A nurse skitters into your room quietly, aware of the beast deep in slumber on the couch. She asks for your arm and gets to work, changing the IV inserted in your arm with the speed of a pit crew during the last few minutes of a race. After she finishes her work, she asks quietly, “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, eyes widening in surprise at how sore your voice sounds. “Uh, yeah, can you wake up that man over there?”

The nurse glances at Hank and seems hesitant to follow your instructions. “I don’t want to disturb him. He seems like he hasn’t gotten sleep in days.”

That comes with the job, you suppose. Lethargy haunts Hank’s face, under eyes blackened and puffed abnormally outwards. You’re surprised he hasn’t dropped dead yet. He probably hasn’t even made his way home in days, save for the few times where showering at the precinct just wasn’t something he could do anymore. You truly felt bad for the guy, and you feel especially bad that he has to be here to look after you.

“It’s fine then,” you answer her, waving her off. You thank her, and she nods and leaves, making her way out of your room, the clicks of her shoes sounding farther and farther away until they’re simply nonexistent.

Now, it’s time to deal with Hank.

There are better things for him to do instead of wasting his time here at the hospital. Between spearheading the android crimes task force and conquering his own personal demons, Hank had no time to be attending to you.

You surmise that his staying here was merely to tell you the events that happened after you blacked out - all a formality, something he’s paid to do. Nothing more. You don’t expect him to stay any longer than he has to, and frankly, you don’t want him to. He already has too much on his plate.

Maybe this situation has a silver lining after all. With you out of commission, no one will be bothering him at the station during work hours. You’ll be out of his hair. At least this traumatic experience gives one person peace.

Hank continues to sleep despite your soft calls for him to wake up. His snores have somehow aligned with the beeping of your heart monitor, which, in itself, is impressive, but you’re not here to revel in Hank’s secret talents. When you attempt to call his name one more time, he doesn’t respond.

Reaching behind your back, you grab one of the pillows propping you up and aim directly at him. Although you can barely lift your arms over your head, you try your best to gather your energy into your arms, counting down the seconds until you throw.

“Sorry, detective,” you croak. Just as you reach one, Hank’s right eye opens, somehow already looking directly at you.

“Don’t even _think_ about throwing that pillow.”

“I thought you were asleep,” you answer. Since it’s the only way you can show emotion, you quirk your eyebrow just the slightest bit as you release the pillow from your hands. It lands lopsided against your back in an extremely uncomfortable position.

Both eyes open now, Hank pushes himself off the coach and comes closer towards your bed. He motions for you to lean forward, and you do - or, at least, you _try to,_ as much as you can, but you find that the motion is too intense for you to bear. “I was,” he says as he fixes your pillow back into a comfortable position, “but I felt that you were going to throw something at me so I woke up. Detective senses, I guess.”

Groaning in relief as you lean back against your pillow, you look up at him and smile weakly, to show gratitude. “It’s been a rough week, huh?”

Hank leans against the railing of your bed and gives you a smile in return, albeit a small one. “I’m glad you’re okay, kid. You really are a trooper.”

“To be honest, I’m not even sure what happened to me,” you admit, sinking back into your bed.

“Let me enlighten you then,” Hank says, procuring a chair, scraping it closer to your bed, and twisting it so that the back faces you. “After being discovered at the crime scene, the deviant took two hostages. First, it was one of our rookies, but she was let go after Samuel was able to escape from the roof. The second, obviously you, was taken because the deviant felt threatened. He needed you as leverage.”

The nurse comes back in, ice cup in hand. She gives it to you silently. When Hank makes eye contact with her, he nods to show acknowledgement, and she scurries away again, leaving you two alone. “Threatened by what?” you ask as you dip your spoon into the cup, scooping a good amount of ice pellets into your mouth.

“Connor. Kid was hot on the deviant’s trail. If Samuel didn’t take you, he probably wouldn’t have been able to leave the crime scene without getting shot at.”

“Maybe this is just me thinking out of my ass, but wouldn’t taking a hostage lead into a whole chase?” you question, forgetting that you have ice in your mouth. Your words come out a garbled mess. Although the ice is unchewed, you swallow hard, the cool ice painfully sliding against the hotness of your throat. A cough comes out, as well as a bit of a choke, but you’re quick to suppress it. “If I were trying to escape a crime scene in which I was the murderer, I would do anything to stay lowkey until I got out of the area safely. Essentially _stealing a human being_ isn’t what I would call ‘lowkey,’ detective.”

“Believe me, I thought about that too,” Hank mutters. “Typically, accused murderers don’t want to bring attention to themselves...unless they want to be caught.”

You stop scooping into your ice. “You think he wanted to be caught?” Voice faltering, you drop your cup into your lap, your eyes suddenly starting to feel heavy. “That’s...sort of sick, detective. You think he did all of this for attention? After all the abuse he endured, you think that he killed his owner just for fifteen minutes of fame?”

“No,” Hank answers, shaking his head, “I think he did it because he couldn’t find another way out.” He rubs his temple deeply in an attempt to subdue the throbbing headache he’s starting to have. “Think about it. Most of the people in this fuckin’ city hate androids. That hatred isn’t limited to civilians.” His voice drops, and he says in a pained whisper, “He knew that being in charge of his own death was better than what was waiting for him if he got caught.”

“So that shot,” you whisper, eyes widening at the realization. “That shot was from him?”

“He shot himself.” Hank doesn’t sugarcoat anything, as you’ve come to find out. He’s very forward, direct, unapologetically explicit. You’re not quite used to it yet, despite being used to him yelling at you to leave him alone with his work. “Gun under chin. He pulled the trigger right after he pushed you into Connor. Bits of shrapnel deflected from him and went straight into your thigh, which is why you’re here right now.”

Right on cue, a soreness in your leg suddenly appears, intense and sharp, emerging as Hank acknowledges its existence. You hiss and grip your ice cup a little too tightly. Hank does you a favor and remains quiet as the wave of pain passes.

“The morphine should make it all better soon,” he says quietly. “I have to get your testimony still, but--”

Suddenly, a knock, precise and abrupt, comes from the door. You look at Hank confused.

“Was anyone else supposed to visit me today?”

“No one that I know,” he answers, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

As the door slides open and you see who is at the door, you can feel your mouth widening into a smile. For once, the universe seems to be in your favor.

“Hello. Apologies for the intrusion, but I’ve come to see if you’re doing well.”

You shake your head.

“Hi Connor. No need to apologize. Please, come in.”

 

* * *

  

In all his time as a detective, he has never ever been to the hospital.

How that’s so, Connor doesn’t know. He’s never had to visit anyone in the hospital, any victims especially. It’s just not a required part of the job. Criminals commit crimes; victims get hurt. There’s always something happening in Detroit, and if Connor had to visit every android crime victim in the city, he’d never get any work done.

With that statement comes the question: why? Why is he here, in the hospital, if he never bothered to visit any victims before? In response, he only has one answer: he’s not sure.

He’s not sure why he’s made an exception for this girl, the journalist. Frankly, it’s surprising, frightening even, just how much he’s consumed with the thought of her wellbeing. Connor didn’t care before about anyone, besides Hank, Sumo, and himself. He’s not sure what changed in him, that made him care.

As Connor walks through the hospital corridor, the smell of bleach floods his senses, multiple sensory notices analyzing his surroundings. He can hear the collected wheeze of several asthma masks, the hushed chatter of medical personnel buzzed on three shots of espresso, and the faint sound of patients groaning. It’s such a peculiar place - the hospital. But he likes how everything just sort of runs like clockwork.

He rounds the corner and approaches her room slowly, his hand gripping a bouquet of sunflowers so tightly that the stems start to thin out. He read an article that said flowers are the most appropriate “get well soon” gift, but he knows that nothing he can give will ever be enough. After all, what present is enough to compensate a person for the trauma you’ve caused them? What present can mask the guilt of injuring someone you swore to protect, guilt caused by _your_ errors, _your_ missteps, _your_ fatal miscalculations?

Though his knowledge spans the length of a million encyclopedias, he finds that he doesn’t know the answer. He fears that he will never know. But he’s prepared to find out, even if it eats him alive.

He decides to knock on her door three times to notify her that he was outside. When he ran his preconstruction, one didn’t seem enough, and five looked desperate. The middle number, three, was just right - not too little, not too much. When his fist makes contact with the door the third time, it slides open, without a hitch.

Both she and Hank look up, but his sight falls immediately on her. The second Connor makes eye contact with her, he feels his system go hot, thirium pumping in his artificial veins as if his life depended on it. It sort of feels like he’s short circuiting, like his wires are twisted in all the wrong ways, like there’s malware in his system, but...

That just couldn’t be. Cyberlife - they made sure that absolutely _nothing_ could go wrong with him before they sent him out to fulfill his duty.  They ran their scans; they thought of every problem that could possibly disable Connor in any way; they took every precaution into consideration, installing antivirus programs and other measures to make sure that the issues within him would resolve themselves, if any had the gall to come up.

So, why couldn’t he make this feeling go away?

His eyes flicker quickly between her and Hank, the difference between their expressions astounding. Hank’s face epitomizes confusion, possibly due to the fact that Connor had many, many things to do today yet he’s here at the hospital, wasting precious time that can be exhausted over a case. On the other hand, a smile eats up the journalist’s whole face, and she seems particularly happy that he’d taken the time to stop by. Connor is unsure of the incessant fluttering in his chest.

“Hello,” he says, cutting through the thick silence. “Apologies for the intrusion, but I’ve come to see if you’re doing well.”

She shakes her head, gaze still fully focusing on him. “Hi Connor. No need to apologize. Please, come in.”

Connor steps forward, and the door behind him slides shut. As he walks towards her bed, he notes the beeps of the heart monitor, how much it reassures him, and how his own heart beats at a much faster rate than hers. It’s embarrassing that he has no self control.

“Connor,” Hank gruffly says, leaning forward against the chair he’s sitting in, “I thought you had things to do at the station. What are you doing here?”

After being posed with that question, Connor fumbles, LED betraying him by swirling a solid yellow glow. He searches for an answer but finds that there isn’t one.

Truthfully, he’s not sure why he’s here. There’s absolutely no logical explanation for any of this: no way to explain why he rushed through his paperwork, no excuse for his hurried collection of witness testimonials. He knows that he can’t just say he half-assed all his work just to see this girl, but that’s quite honestly what had happened. This isn’t like him, but he can’t find any explanation for his actions.

Perhaps it is guilt that brought him to the this very spot, at the edge of her bed. Yes, he did manage to save her life, but he wasn’t able to foresee the deviant shooting himself, which, in turn, injured her. All his decisions were calculated, thought out down to a science, yet he failed to see the most obvious way the hostage situation would end. The stitches on the back of her thigh are a testament of his failures, of the things he should have done but didn’t. And for that, he only has himself to blame.

“I finished early,” he responds, internalizing the guilt and putting on a brave face. “I thought it was appropriate to visit, considering that I was the cause of her injuries.”

“Connor—” Hank says, immediately looking apologetic. Connor isn’t able to look at him.

Instead, he keeps his eyes on the journalist. Still with a smile on her face, she looks upbeat, hopeful, even in the state that she’s in. And Connor doesn’t get it - doesn’t get how she finds happiness after everything she’s been through, doesn’t get why she chooses to be happy even after the world turned on her.

Finding happiness in a world so cruel is a gift. A gift that can’t be programmed. But Connor decides that it’s okay, if he can’t be like that. Only humans can afford to be that foolishly optimistic.

“I’ve brought flowers for you as a get well gift. My research tells me that lillies are the flowers most consumers buy as get well presents, but...” He feels himself stiffening, his joints and limbs locking up as if all his motor skills are suddenly shutting down. The way he says his words sounds so robotic and impersonal. As his voice drifts off, he shakes his head and attempts to reset, wanting the conversation to become more... _human_. “The sunflowers caught my eye.” He smiles widely, genuinely. “I hope you like them.”

“They’re perfect, Connor,” she gushes. As she receives the flowers in her arms, her eyes glint so brightly that Connor becomes wholly captivated. She looks up at him, glassy eyes and all, and proclaims mellifluously, “Sunflowers are my absolute favorite! They’re so tall...and...and gorgeous! I--” Then, for some reason, she retreats back into herself, her gusto disappearing and the lilt of her voice falling. Only the smile on her face remains. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

Before Connor can say anything to respond, the automatic door slides open, interrupting their conversation. The doctor, a five-foot-eleven bespectacled man who Connor identifies as Dr. David Blumberg, walks in, eyes glued to the chart on his tablet until he approaches journalist’s bedside.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks, placing his tablet on the nightstand and readying his stethoscope. As he places the diaphragm on her chest, he reiterates, clarifying, “How is your leg feeling?”

“As good as it can be,” she answers. “I don’t think I can move it without feeling a sharp pain in my thigh.”

“As expected,” the doctor says, nodding in satisfaction. He removes the earpieces of the stethoscope, placing the entire thing around his neck, then looks directly at Hank. “Are you the patient’s family?”

Hank seems to be caught off guard. A few seconds pass before he registers exactly what the doctor is asking, but he manages to mutter a small “no” to answer. “I’m just the officer in charge of her case,” he explains further, hand grasping the opposite railing of the bed.

“Well, I’m going to need to be in contact with a family member as soon as possible,” the doctor replies, troubled. “The surgery went well, but she’ll need to have someone take care of her in order to completely recover. I’m going to need to talk to someone about changing the wraps of her injured leg, taking her to physical therapy...” He turns to the journalist, face serious. “Do you have any family members that I can contact, preferably in the Detroit area?”

“No,” she says simply. “I don’t.”

“Do you have anyone who can take care of you at this time?”

If silence could speak, it would tell the entire room what they already know: she has absolutely no one. Whether it’s shame or pride that’s holding her back from saying anything, he doesn’t know. She just needs to say something soon to break the agonizing silence settling among them.

Connor would offer her helping hand, if he was able to. But it’s just not his place to offer anything when he has nothing in his possession to offer.

Hank, however, has no qualms about any of it.

“She can stay with me,” he says, eying the doctor directly. “I’ll take care of her.”

“No, detective, I couldn’t--” she stammers, immediately trying to deny Hank’s help. Hank will have none of it and waves her off.

“Look, kid, not to drag your troubles out in the open, but I don’t have to be a detective to know that you have no one who can help you,” he says, flickering his eyes over to her. “You don’t have much of a choice here.”

“It’s too much to ask for,” she insists. Her eyes are pleading now, begging Hank to reconsider. “You have a job - an important one. You’ll have to be with me constantly, and I will just be a huge burden.” Tangled in a mess of IVs, she crosses her arms and looks away from him, ashamed. “I couldn’t...I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not asking,” Hank responds, “because I’m _commanding_ you to let me help.” The girl reels back, alerting Hank to tone it down a bit, and he softens his voice immensely. “If the only thing that’s keeping you from saying yes is my job, then Connor and I will take shifts. It’s not like I’m going to be doing this alone, and...it’ll be nice to have people around the house again.”

The last part of Hank’s lecture sounds so incredibly vulnerable that it doesn’t even seem like he’s the one talking. Even though Connor met Hank only a few months ago, he’s known Hank long enough to understand that Hank has trouble opening up to people, especially on the topic of his family. From a detective’s standpoint, it seems like Hank is using the oldest tactic in the book: revealing personal information to gain the trust of a suspect. Except, Hank’s not using this tactic to gain leverage over a suspect. There is no suspect, nor is there a crime. There’s only a girl, lonely and scared, who has no one to help her except a battered lieutenant and his android partner. They’re an odd pair, the two of them, but it’ll all work out somehow. It always does.

“Just trust me,” Hank pleads. “Please.”

Unbeknownst to the journalist, Connor watches her and analyzes her behavior. He’s sure that there’s some sort of ethical violation somewhere in his actions, but he can’t find the energy to care. Hank’s sincere pleas undoubtedly helped raise the success rate of the journalist agreeing to the proposed plan. Her heart rate has lowered to a normal rate, her breathing is not as staggered, and her frown has lifted to a thin smile. Connor doesn’t know if she’ll say yes, but he hopes to God, to rA9 and beyond, that she does.

If she agrees to be cared for by Hank and himself, about ninety-eight percent of the outcomes end with her becoming fully recovered. For her, it’s a win-win situation. She won’t lose anything if she agrees. It’s Connor who loses everything if she doesn’t.

After much thought, she looks up again, eyes regaining a bit of the glint they had before. “Alright,” she whispers, glancing at Hank, then at Connor. “I trust you. Both of you.”

Connor exhales a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in. As he watches Hank shake her hand, he finds that the fluttery feeling has returned, although this time more intense.

And he’s not sure what to think about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for the super late update!!! i just got back from asia and i was gone for a whopping THREE WEEKS so the jetlag is intense. i worked on this chapter throughout the entire vacation, but i just couldn't get it right until now. so here it is! in its nearly 5k words glory!
> 
> it is unedited for now. i'll edit it tmrw when i'm not super jetlaggy.
> 
> the next chapter will be up sooner than this one. i promise. thank u for reading! <3


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